


That One More Chance

by NortheasternWind



Category: Middle-earth: Shadow of Mordor (Video Games)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Major Character Injury, Resurrection, fun with elf biology, i considered making this romantic but decided to honor my younger genfic baby self this time, incredibly unwanted family reunions with jackasses, s-suicide ideation by proxy? but not really?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26996701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NortheasternWind/pseuds/NortheasternWind
Summary: The Black Hand is nothing more than a vessel for Sauron, and so when Sauron is ousted from it Celebrimbor seizes the body for his own.That does leave Talion with a massive throat-wound-shaped problem, however.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar & Talion (Shadow of Mordor)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

In the instant before the Black Hand is destroyed forever, Celebrimbor steals back into what was to be Sauron’s new vessel.

In truth, he cannot say exactly why. He had simply realized it was possible – that here was his only real chance to live again – and seized the opportunity before it slipped from his grasp. There are plenty of opportunities to shed his cage of flesh, but far fewer to gain it back once lost.

With a burst of power he feels Urfael leave his body – his body now, not Sauron’s – and lands unceremoniously upon the stonework, gasping out his first true breath in four thousand years. He almost forgets how to breathe again, but the body is a wondrous thing: it continues without his help, and Celebrimbor focuses on regaining his feet.

Ten feet away with a hand on his bleeding throat lays Talion, struggling to draw himself upright.

Celebrimbor stumbles like a newborn colt in his haste to return to Talion’s side, and is nearly startled back to the ground when Talion draws Acharn and brandishes it in his direction.

“Talion,” he scolds irritably, before realizing the problem: black fabric frames his vision, a dark hood hiding his features. He is still wearing the armor of the Black Hand.

Celebrimbor pulls the hood off and approaches again – with no better luck. Talion pitifully struggles backward with a wild-eyed fury Celebrimbor has never seen in him before – though probably because he has always watched from inside Talion, instead of witnessing his actions from a distance.

“Talion,” he repeats. “Calm yourself, or you will bleed to death.”

The amount of blood pouring from his throat is alarming, but Talion pays him no heed; only holds his son’s blade at the ready and grits his teeth with the effort of pushing himself to a seat. Celebrimbor can wait no longer: he darts forward like an arrow from his bow and knocks Acharn from Talion’s injured hand, then grasps it in one of his to stop the bleeding there as well.

“Talion,” he says firmly, as though his new heart is not thundering in his chest. Talion struggles to escape his grip; if he does not recognize Celebrimbor and calm down he will die here, and Celebrimbor –

“Talion!” he repeats, squeezing Talion’s hand. “The Black Hand is gone. Talion, look at me!”

With his free hand he seizes Talion’s hair and tugs it to force Talion to meet his gaze. For a moment the rage and fear in Talion’s eyes only intensifies, but Celebrimbor watches as they are finally replaced by recognition – and confusion.

Talion’s hand goes slack in his, which alarms him more than it perhaps should, and his mouth works uselessly without producing sound.

“Don’t speak,” Celebrimbor warns him, slowly lowering him back to the ground. “I am going to bind your throat, and then your hand.”

Talion makes an aborted noise, but Celebrimbor resolves not to look at him; instead he removes the Black Hand’s cloak and tears it into strips with his newfound strength. That done he gently lifts Talion’s head to cradle it in his lap, and quickly wraps layer upon layer of makeshift bandage onto his throat.

There is so much blood. Bitterly, Celebrimbor wishes he had paid more attention the first time, had cared enough to watch the life drain from Talion’s eyes so that he would know how much time he has left.

(He is still not certain he cares _now_. Talion has been very consistent about longing for death, and had reaffirmed that position before they scaled the Black Gate. Perhaps Celebrimbor’s actions now are not basic decency, but another calculated attempt at sympathy, so that he may have an ally in his fight against Sauron.

Sauron. His hands become fists at the thought, but as there is much that requires his immediate attention he lets these musings go.)

Next is Talion’s left hand. Celebrimbor replaces the right onto Talion’s throat for good measure, though he can quickly feel the strength of Talion’s grip fading. Talion’s eyes have stopped following his movements: they are closed now, giving Celebrimbor no indication of how much focus he has left.

Once Talion’s wounds are bound Celebrimbor lifts him into his arms. The orcs will return shortly, but the Black Gate was a garrison not long ago: there will be medical supplies, bandages and poultices, things Celebrimbor can use to prolong the thread of Talion’s life. He does not have Talion’s knowledge of the flora of Mordor, however, and so he will have to hope that Talion’s men kept good records of their supplies.

He carries Talion into the nearest tower, setting him down briefly to bar the door and quickly scout the inside. It is empty but for the furniture, all the orcs preoccupied with the siege outside, and should hopefully remain so for at least a day. This building was clearly not a barracks: the closest thing to a bed Celebrimbor can find is a table with a map on it, so he sets Talion down there while he continues his search.

“I will be back shortly,” he assures Talion, and goes.

His second attempt is little more successful than the first. There are only weapons in this tower, maps and shields and other such equipment for defending the entrance to Mordor. The medical wing must be somewhere else.

When he returns to Talion, the man is unconscious.

He bites down the urge to call out to him again, to say his name. Talion could not answer even if he were awake. Instead Celebrimbor checks his pulse and his bandages, steels himself, and heads out to explore the rest of the Black Gate.

It takes him the better part of two hours to find the remains of the barracks. The orcs have clearly enjoyed ransacking it; smashed bottles and filthy rags litter the ground, laying in dried pools of blood that have seeped between the stones. There is no time to despair of finding anything helpful; Celebrimbor merely sets himself to his search.

Most of what he finds are bandages, weathered by careless exposure. There is some vinegar left in a broken bottle on the ground, and a spilled container of what seems to be salt, but the herbal remedies Celebrimbor hoped to find are scattered among broken glass – and unlabeled. He will have to rely on what little he remembers from his travels with Talion.

He returns with his spoils and sets to work with no small regret: he does not envy Talion his ordeal. Fearing to unwrap his throat so soon Celebrimbor pours the vinegar onto his hand instead, holding him steady with elven strength when the pain reaches his sleeping mind.

Once again, Celebrimbor stops himself from speaking. There is no point.

Once it is rebound, Celebrimbor grasps Talion’s hand in his. There is nothing left in the Black Gate, and it is far too dangerous to seek treatment in Mordor. If Talion is to have any hope of survival, much less recovery, they must leave Mordor.

...They are leaving Mordor.

After thousands of years of imprisonment in the black land, that thought feels almost absurd. Mordor has become the center of Celebrimbor’s world, the closest thing to a home he has left, and he had long ago given up all hope of freedom. But he is not a wraith anymore: there is nothing binding him here but fear, and Celebrimbor has already sworn to never fear again.

He squeezes Talion’s hand once more, then turns to renew his search. Even the orcs are certain to have kept provisions.

* * *

It occurs to him three days into their journey that Celebrimbor never did go back to inform the orcs of what happened. They cannot have failed to notice that the Black Hand is dead, but they are likely to add Talion’s name to the casualties.

All the better. They will be waiting for his return in Mordor, and not searching for him west of the mountains.

The terrain just outside the Black Gate is nearly as inhospitable as just within it, but still Celebrimbor stops briefly to cut some red remmenthond they come across. Few of Talion’s casual lessons on the flora of Mordor have stuck in his memory, but remmenthond is quite distinctive – and of course, he cannot forget Lúthien’s niphredil, apparently the favorite flower of Talion’s late wife.

Fate works in strange ways, sometimes.

He carries Talion across his shoulders for great stretches of time, as long as his legs can carry him and stopping only to pour stolen ale down Talion’s throat. Talion wakes infrequently, and never for long, eyes darting about wildly until Celebrimbor enters his sight. Sometimes he tries to speak, but Celebrimbor always shushes him: he is reduced to nodding or shaking his head minutely when Celebrimbor questions him about his condition, and how best to look after it.

He knows that humans frequently suffer great illness after their wounds, but few ways to prevent it. Five days into the trip he gingerly removes the top layer of bandages around Talion’s throat, straddles his waist as a precaution, and soaks the bottom layer in ale.

The violence of Talion’s response surprises him: he makes a horrifying noise between a scream and a gurgle and reaches up to claw at his throat, stopped only by Celebrimbor’s timely intervention. His left hand is too injured to be of any danger, so Celebrimbor grabs and restrains his right – but this only intensifies whatever fear Talion must feel, for he begins thrashing and pawing blindly at Celebrimbor’s breastplate, desperately trying to throw him off. With one hand Celebrimbor quickly rewraps the bandages as best he can, then restrains Talion’s injured arm and waits for him to calm down.

Perhaps predictably, he does not. Talion continues to struggle helplessly beneath him, eyes screwed shut in agony, and with an urgency that feels strangely far away Celebrimbor transfers both Talion’s hands to one of his and smooths down Talion’s hair.

“Talion,” he says simply, because there is nothing else to say, and he repeats Talion’s name to him over and over until the man drains himself into unconsciousness. Talion does not react when Celebrimbor repeats this treatment on his left hand.

Celebrimbor had been free with his smiles once, affectionate to his friends and loving to his family. He knows the actions that will convince others that he cares for them. And yet, holding Talion’s hand in his feels both right and wrong: a true expression of his determination, but one he would not have cared to give before now even if he’d possessed a body.

He had been a wraith with no name when he found Talion, and he is not yet sure that changed as his memories returned. The only thing he knows for certain now is that Talion will not return from death if he is allowed to wander into it again, and so if Celebrimbor wishes to avoid making any permanent decisions just yet then his path forward is clear.

There was little in the way of food on the Black Gate to take with them, and Celebrimbor fears to feed Talion anything solid, so the ale is his only sustenance for days in the wilderness. Celebrimbor keeps none of it for himself: he is lightheaded and exhausted, but he has gone far, far longer without food or drink.

(While being tortured, and shortly thereafter murdered, but the knowledge that he _can_ survive a little starvation keeps him walking long after he would have otherwise reached the brink of despair.)

* * *

He will never admit it for as long as he lives, but when Celebrimbor stumbles upon a ranger outpost in Ithilien he nearly collapses with his relief.

Talion’s armor immediately marks him as one of their own, and so he is accepted into their fold at once. One ranger leaves to spread word amongst their comrades, while two hurry forward with wide eyes to relieve Celebrimbor of his burden.

“The Black Gate!” one cries upon seeing his chestpiece. “Our scouts thought there were no survivors.”

“There were none,” Celebrimbor confirms. “He thought it best to uphold his duty in Mordor alone after all his comrades were slain.”

It is an easy enough lie to tell, and he hopes it will be sufficient to uphold Talion’s honor.

The rangers each go through a complicated set of expressions before settling on concern. “Lay him down here. What are his injuries?”

“His left hand was nearly crushed, and his throat is cut. It is a miracle he has lived even this long,” Celebrimbor says, obeying and carefully, carefully setting Talion upon the grass. He is so pale, as though he were the Gravewalker still. “I tried my best, but I know little of mortal ailments and was unable to prevent him from falling ill.”

One of the rangers winces after pulling back the bandages on his hand. “His condition is grave indeed. He is lucky to have a friend like you.”

Wary of their diminished mortal strength Celebrimbor insists on carrying Talion into their hideout himself, but otherwise allows them to do their work. It seems every ranger is a learned herbalist or surgeon, and occasionally both, and though Celebrimbor would not mind learning something of their craft they do not scold him for his clumsy attempts to keep Talion alive. He stands over them for some minutes, listening to them ask for yarrow, alfirin, feverfew, and all manner of other things he has and has not heard of, until another ranger approaches him with a bowl.

“If you’ve come from Mordor you must be hungry,” he says, and when Celebrimbor says nothing in response adds: “Your friend is in good hands. You need not go far.”

He does not. Celebrimbor takes a seat nearby and eats in silence, sipping small mouthfuls of the broth the ranger has brought him. Being warned to eat slowly grates when he has spent longer in Mordor than most of them have been alive, _combined_ , but he decides that they are merely being careful and tries not to make his offense obvious.

More than that, it feels wrong to eat before Talion, who has had nothing but old ale for over a week now. He would rather wait until Talion is fed, if the rangers see fit to feed him at all, but somehow Celebrimbor’s body seems to mechanically accept and then consume what it is offered on its own.

Celebrimbor’s first meal in 4000 years is taken over Talion’s broken body. If he lives to be a million, he will always remember the bitter taste.

“His survival will depend upon the infection,” a ranger tells him later. “If his fever breaks he will live, although in what condition I do not know.”

Celebrimbor has tried not to think of that since being reembodied, and does not intend to break that habit now. “Is it safer to treat him here, or carry him to the city?”

“Travel will be faster now that you are in Ithilien proper,” he says. “If you are willing and able to travel day and night, you can be in Osgiliath in three days’ time.”

Celebrimbor nods: he is beginning to feel the drag of exhaustion upon his body and soul, but three days is as nothing next to everything he has endured.

“But you should take a day to rest,” the ranger goes on.

“No. What rest I have had is enough; I can go on for three days longer. Tell me what to do when his fever worsens.”

* * *

Two and a half days later, Celebrimbor finally drags himself and Talion into Osgiliath.

Not even two weeks of travel, and yet Celebrimbor is already dead on his feet. At his peak he could go far longer than that, and had done so on more than one occasion. He is not certain what makes this journey so different.

(When his wife and daughter’s fates hung in the balance Celebrimbor traveled with frantic, almost manic energy. Now Talion is dying in his arms, and yet all he can muster is the distant certainty that he must not do nothing. Celebrimbor is more a part of this world today than he has been in thousands of years, and yet suddenly everything seems so much farther away.)

Once again Talion’s armor is recognized at once, and this time Celebrimbor is only barely able to keep them from being separated. The soldiers are understandably concerned about Talion’s condition, but once it is clear Celebrimbor will not relinquish him to their care alone he is directed to a large, quiet building.

Not quiet for long, however. A flurry of activity kicks up as the extent of Talion’s injuries becomes clear, and Celebrimbor is forced to step back and allow them their space to work.

“His name?”

Celebrimbor frowns. Talion had been exiled to the Black Gate, but surely they would not hold his presence here against him if he was carried on someone else’s back.

“Talion.”

The medic nods. “And yours?”

Celebrimbor does not answer, and is silent long enough that the medic looks up as though wondering if he has heard. She must see something in his face, for the line of her lips thins and she turns away.

“Have it your way, then.”

Perhaps he ought to have trusted them more, because unlike the rangers they do not allow him to hover as they tend to Talion. He is ushered away into a separate room and told that food will be sent up shortly, and he should rest until then.

“If he wakes he will ask for me,” Celebrimbor says without thinking. He would hate to see Talion undo all their work by panicking about his companion’s sudden absence.

“He won’t wake,” a medic says. Not unkindly, but Celebrimbor does not find this as comforting as they no doubt hope.

Generally speaking, elves do not sleep. They fall into a waking trance which restores their mind the way sleep restores that of a mortal, and can easily perform simple tasks and be roused in case of danger. But for a single moment of weakness Celebrimbor allows himself to collapse horizontal upon the bed, and that is all the signal his body needs to drift off into a very unelvish slumber.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter: Fun with Logical Extrapolation Of Elf Biology, Talion being Slightly More Lucid and Definitely In Better Condition Than He Should Be (but it's fanfic so we're all just going to pretend), and some artifact lines that i'm constantly dying to expand upon. Thank you to Vyc for providing so many assistance during this process and in the grand tradition of my twoshots this is now a threeshot. Oops.

Celebrimbor wakes to the sound of a commotion nearby. Having never quite slept before it takes him some moments to understand why his head feels so heavy, and why the room is lit so differently, but when he hears the healers calling Talion’s name and urging him to calm he snaps back to awareness, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

Another medic intercepts him at the next door over, stopping him with a hand on his shoulder. He is not strong enough to actually prevent Celebrimbor from entering, of course, but Celebrimbor does stop short out of a momentary sense of politesse.

“Let me through,” he orders simply.

The healer shakes his head. “I don’t think…”

 _Talion?_ he calls out – not with his voice, but with his mind, as the elves do. Once upon a time there were countless voices in his head, the natural bonds of family filling his heart and his mind with their comfort, but one by one those flames have all been snuffed out and left great voids in their wake, until Celebrimbor was utterly alone.

Elves were not meant to be alone in their minds. It is no wonder he forgot his own name, imprisoned so long in Mordor.

 _Celebrimbor!_ Talion’s voice responds, with greater strength than Celebrimbor had expected. _Where are you? Are you here?_

 _I’m here,_ Celebrimbor confirms. _We are both safe._

The commotion inside dies down, and the healer denying Celebrimbor passage looks over his shoulder. He frowns, but removes his hand as he turns to face the elf again.

“If you don’t disturb him,” he warns, and then steps aside.

 _I thought you couldn’t hear me,_ Talion says as Celebrimbor stalks past the healer without a word. _I thought we’d lost – this._

Most of the medics have cleared out by the time Celebrimbor reaches Talion’s bedside. They have stripped him of his armor and dressed him in fresh bandages and clothes, and he looks much smaller than Celebrimbor has ever seen him. He is still terribly pale, eyes closed against the light, but simply hearing Talion’s voice in his mind again makes him seem much livelier than he had been just hours ago.

 _We have,_ Celebrimbor confirms. _We are not bound as we were. But elves have some power over the mind, and I more than most._

“He’s calmed down a little,” the only healer left in the room tells Celebrimbor. “Still has a fever, I’m afraid. But he’s a strong one.”

 _I called out for you,_ Talion says wearily into his mind. _You never answered._

Celebrimbor curses himself, and his shortsighted determination. _Our souls are no longer as close as they once were. To hear you I must actively listen, and I have not been of late._

“He is,” Celebrimbor says to the healer. “Will he live?”

The healer frowns. “It’s still too early to say, especially if his fever has lasted as long as you say it has. But he should be dead already, and so I would take heart in his persistence rather than despairing of his illness.”

If Talion has anything to say to this pronouncement, he keeps it to himself. “I see. I will keep watch over him, if you have duties elsewhere,” Celebrimbor tells her.

The medic nods. “Of course, sir…?”

Celebrimbor does not answer; he only moves to Talion’s side, and after a few moments of waiting hears the healer leave.

 _I am here now, Talion,_ he says silently. _Rest, and do not fear that I shall leave again._

Talion exhales, just the slightest bit. _Thank you._

* * *

Talion’s condition improves more quickly now that he is no longer being carried across Ithilien like a sack of potatoes, but Celebrimbor suspects it will be some time before he finds the strength to stay awake longer than a few minutes. He remains by Talion’s side as much as he can, for there is no one else to hear the man’s voice.

The days pass thus: Celebrimbor remains in Talion’s room for as long as he can, resting and eating there  when he must . Talion spends most of his time asleep on some concoction the healers give him, so that he need not endure the pain. He calls for Celebrimbor the moment he wakes,  and only relaxes when he receives an answer,  but more often than  speaking they simply sit together in silence.  Talion’s breaths are pained and labored, and he spends many of his waking hours with his eyes screwed shut.

Celebrimbor’s power had kept such things from dragging on for too long while they were bound, but now he can do nothing but sit and watch as his companion struggles through his injuries. In life his hands were rarely idle, but doing nothing has been his pastime of choice in death and so the inactivity is easy to bear.

There is no point in being concerned for Talion.  Instead Celebrimbor chooses another well-worn pastime: hating Sauron.

Oh, how he hates. He hates. Nothing can compare to the pain of being torn in half at the soul, of feeling his precious girl’s little light go out forever in his heart. Celebrimbor has already lost so many flames, but to feel his daughter’s fear and know that she could sense his despair in turn…

And Talion. Sauron has done nothing to Talion that Celebrimbor has not also done, and yet looking upon his companion fans the flames of Celebrimbor’s anger even higher.

It is a physical pain, his hatred, the mere knowledge that somewhere out there Sauron still exists – scheming, searching, waiting. Sauron exists, and will always exist, tethered to the world by his missing ring, and there will be no victory against him, and the injustice of that burns so hot that Celebrimbor wonders if he had not forgotten on purpose. It had not worked, of course: when Celebrimbor’s name, all his love and his skill and his memory had faded away, the hatred of Sauron remained, but to leave this anger behind and forget…

It is tempting, even now. Even when he knows he will despise Sauron forever, long after he has forgotten everything else. Sauron will always be the most enduring figure in his heart, and so his victory is absolute.

Celebrimbor hates it. He hates it.

He hates it. He hates it. He hates it. He hates it.

He hates it.

(One of his earliest memories is of being carried upon his grandfather’s hip, idly admiring a shining jewel, one of only three. Struck with a child’s curiosity for the most pointless of hypotheticals, he had hurled the stone upon the ground with as much force as he could muster.

“Why would you do that, dear one?” his grandfather had asked, stooping to retrieve the jewel and return it to him.

The young Celebrimbor had of course thrown it to the ground again the moment he had it in hand, and his grandfather had giggled. _Giggled._

“Come now, Tyelpë,” he had chided. “How rude!”

Over and over he had collected the gem, and over and over he had laughed as Celebrimbor threw it down again, until it had become one of their most precious, private jokes.

Celebrimbor’s grandfather is the single most reviled man who ever lived, and Celebrimbor now understands him more than ever.)

* * *

_You lied to me_ , Talion says wearily one day.

Celebrimbor supposes this conversation had to happen eventually. Though they had discussed it after the Tower, the question of Celebrimbor’s actions had been set aside in favor of pursuing the Black Hand with the understanding that after their victory Talion would be freed and Celebrimbor’s deception would cease to be a practical issue.

But Talion is still here. Once again Celebrimbor has dragged him back from death, and so he can no longer sidestep the consequences of his wrongdoing.

 _I believed you would want revenge_ , Celebrimbor repeats to him. _But ultimately your wishes did not matter to me. I needed power, and without you I was powerless._

Talion levels him with an unnervingly steady gaze, despite his condition. _What did you think of me_ , he asks, _that you did not tell me the truth after all we have been through together?_

Celebrimbor is silent for much longer than he means to be. His mind simply refuses to accept the implications of Talion’s words.

 _If I told you the truth, you would make me release you_ , he answers simply.

Talion looks at him. Just looks. But then he sighs, and the moment ends.

_I doubt I could make you do anything._

_No, but you would not be a very useful tool in that case_ , Celebrimbor points out.

Talion leans his head to face away from Celebrimbor, which feels oddly like an attack. Frankly, after learning Celebrimbor’s identity the rationale behind his actions should be obvious, and being treated as though his choices were not only cruel, but _foolish,_ and self-defeating…

 _You are not the man I thought you were_ , Celebrimbor finishes.

 _Neither are you_ , Talion responds.

Celebrimbor waits for the next logical step, which is to scold him for ignoring Talion’s wishes one more time, but the exhausted Talion simply drifts off into slumber instead.

* * *

Talion’s – and by extension, Celebrimbor’s – stay in the Houses of Healing drag on long enough that some of the bolder medics begin to ask if Celebrimbor has somewhere else to stay.

He probably should have expected this, as his own condition is rather better than Talion’s and he is using space and rations that could be given to another. But Celebrimbor has no name, and nothing to that nonexistent name: no funds, no friends, and few belongings, many of which are likely to be cursed and unfit for human possession.

(He had taken off the armor of the Black Hand as soon as he knew Talion could still hear his voice; it is currently sitting beneath Talion’s bed, barely hidden and close enough that Celebrimbor can still keep watch over it. He must find a way to get rid of it as soon as possible.)

 _You do not have to stay_ , Talion tells him. _You are free._

 _I cannot feed myself without a bow_ , Celebrimbor answers, and after assuring Talion that he will be back, goes.

Even with his hair hiding his ears, Celebrimbor’s beauty and stature draw many stares. He can feel their gazes like lice crawling over his skin, watching, watching, seeing him as he has not been seen in millenia, and almost he wishes to be a wraith trapped within Talion’s skin again. No lord can afford to be shy – not if they wish to accomplish anything of substance – but suddenly the knowledge that he must eventually speak to strangers for survival fills him with something infuriatingly like fear.

He could simply buy food and a bow. He has skills: he can work, or he can trade away Talion’s mirian, which while not accepted currency surely still has some material value. But inexplicably he finds himself considering the absurd instead, that he should make his own bow, skip the aging of the wood and settle for whatever materials he can scavenge outside the city. Fletch his own arrows. Hunt his own food.

At some point, ruthless practicality had become selfish disregard for reality: at some point Celebrimbor had lost his ability to speak to others, or to depend upon them without holding some form of power over them. At some point during his long, lifeless imprisonment, he had forgotten to keep pride and fear second to survival. He had not needed to.

In the end, Celebrimbor accomplishes nothing on that first trip. He wanders Osgiliath, choosing less populated streets when he feels suffocated and more crowded streets when he is too conspicuous, and returns to Talion’s side empty-handed.

He ignores the gazes of the nurses.

In the grand tradition of his line, Celebrimbor procrastinates by tending to other necessary tasks: he wanders some distance out of the city and hurls the armor of the Black Hand as far into the river as he can.

Preferably he would melt it down first, but he has no fire hot enough to do so, and no way of obtaining one without assistance. The river is the next best option: it has washed the Ring out to sea, and though the chestplate is much heavier than that it is certainly better than simply hiding or burying it.

He separates each piece, just in case. The water is cruel: it will not give up the only means of Sauron’s destruction, but it may yet reveal this new weapon of his if Celebrimbor is not careful.

At least Talion will not flinch at the sight of it anymore.

* * *

“He’s actually not as sick as he should be,” a medic says one day. “You’ve been taking good care of him.”

 _Unfortunately_ , Talion says into Celebrimbor’s mind – but sardonically, as though he does not truly mean it. His condition is now improving rapidly, although Celebrimbor doubts he will ever have the full use of his hand again.

 _Elves do not suffer poison of the blood_ , Celebrimbor tells him once the medic is gone. _And I knew few of your kind in my last life._ _I have only the faintest idea how to prevent an infection._

 _You did do well_ , Talion tells him. _I have never known an agony quite like having ale poured over an open throat wound, but alcohol is a natural disinfectant. I doubt there was any way to prevent the infection entirely, but it is not as bad as it could have been._

 _A_ _ny a_ _lcohol?_ Celebrimbor gives him a wry smile. _I could have poured grog over your throat._

 _I am fairly certain that would actually have killed me_ , Talion says in a matching tone. _Especially if you had fed it to me as well. Alcohol is a topical disinfectant, Celebrimbor._

Celebrimbor does an admirable job of keeping his expression neutral, he thinks, but later Talion will inform him that in fact his face had turned a delicate shade of pink.

* * *

He has prided himself upon determination, but somehow Celebrimbor does not quite recover his nerve. He goes long enough without food that after a few days the nurses take pity on him and wordlessly begin bringing him meals again.

* * *

Soon it becomes clear that Talion will live.

His fever breaks, though he is still weak from being laid up in bed for so long. His wounds are largely scabbed over, though everyone with sense still insists they be kept clean and bandaged (and there is something else Celebrimbor learns: as elves do not fall ill, keeping wounds clean is largely a matter of personal comfort. He had thought speed more necessary for Talion’s wounds, and had not bothered). The healers even permit him slightly more substantial food, although Celebrimbor would not quite call it “solid.”

Though he is still in great pain Talion insists on being conscious more often, and he and the healers eventually strike a deal that is acceptable to both. His mood swings to positive more often than it has been of late, and speaking with him becomes unavoidable.

 _What happened to the Black Hand’s armor?_ he asks. _I haven’t seen you wearing it lately._

Despite knowing he had much better things to worry about, Celebrimbor still wonders that he waited this long to ask. _I had no way of dismantling it permanently, so I cast it into the river. Perhaps someday I can fish it back up to destroy it, but with luck it will simply wash out to sea and trouble us no more._

Talion hides an obvious look of relief. _You have hands now_ , he points out playfully. _Surely you could have figured something out._

_Not without a forge. Perhaps I could have commanded our little fireplace here to burn hot enough to melt it, but I rather thought you were tired of looking at it._

_How considerate of you_ , Talion says sardonically. But he regains his good mood quickly. _Still, you could have borrowed a forge. Paid for it in labor. Have you ever even had a job before?_

He has not. Celebrimbor has had many unusual and difficult trials in his life, but by virtue of his birth he has also managed to avoid many of the more common ones.

 _You are making fun of me_ , Celebrimbor says, though there is no bite in his mind-voice. _Even when I had nothing, as long as I had a sword and a bow I could make everything else for myself – as long as I did not have to deal with polite company._

 _You’re a quick learner_ , Talion teases.

 _You cannot know that_ , Celebrimbor points out. _When we met I was already an expert at everything._

 _True. Perhaps I shall finally watch you stumble – at navigating labor in Osgiliath._ Talion’s chest jumps in a laugh, though no sound comes out. _No one need know who you are, Celebrimbor. The only damage to your pride would be that which you inflict yourself._

That is true. Celebrimbor has not uttered his own name since returning to life, and so Talion is the only one who knows it. But that is only half the issue, after all.

He must have been lost in his thoughts for just a little too long, for Talion’s expression changes. _Is it truly so hard to work for another? I was under the impression you would enjoy being able to smith again, even if it must be for money instead of joy._

 _That is not the problem,_ Celebrimbor says flatly. Talion clearly expects him to continue, and when he fails to do so after a moment the man’s expression changes to one of true concern.

_..._ _Do you not enjoy it?_

_I have not tried, so I have no idea._ He had not considered that – that perhaps his favorite pastime has been soured by Sauron’s influence. But somehow Celebrimbor is uncomfortable with allowing Talion to believe that is his main barrier to doing what needs to be done, so he steels himself and goes on:

_I was a lord in a past life, well accustomed to being watched. But for thousands of years I have walked unseen, not needing to weigh my outward appearance or consider my words._

It should have been easy to fall back upon old strengths, especially since as Talion says there are none here who know his name. He is a stranger, and though they may speak of the strange elf they will surely forget him in time.

People frighten me, Celebrimbor finally admits – but only to himself.

 _I would avoid contact with others if at all possible_ , he says instead.

Something uncomfortably like pity appears on Talion’s face, as though he has intuited what Celebrimbor cannot bear to say.

 _Would you leave if you had a bow?_ he asks. _You mentioned you could fend for yourself if so._

 _I would not leave you here alone,_ Celebrimbor says with some asperity.

A muscle in Talion’s face twitches. _That was not what I asked. But never mind that – do I not fall under the category of others, Celebrimbor?_

_You have seen and heard me perfectly fine for a year now. You know very well already._

Talion smiles. _I suppose I remain trapped with you for now, then._

Celebrimbor resents that statement, but to keep himself from starting a pointless fight he moves on to another necessary conversation.

 _I am sorry,_ he says simply, _for dragging you back from death yet again. You have been very consistent in your wishes, and I have put you through much suffering in order to make you choose again._

There is an offer there. But Talion only reaches out to weakly grasp Celebrimbor’s hand.

 _It would be a shame to put all your hard work to waste_ , he says, and they do not speak of it again for a long time.

* * *

Miraculously, Talion does actually regain the use of his voice.

The healers scold him for saying just about anything, and attempt to teach him sign language (which he does not pick up nearly as quickly as Celebrimbor does; few would), but he can make some sound, and with some shock they inform Celebrimbor that perhaps with regards to his voice he shall make a decent recovery. Celebrimbor breathes a sigh of relief at this news, especially when Talion grumbles at his attempts to aid his studies.

 _You can hear me perfectly fine through our bond_ , Talion says. _Just speak to me as you always have._

_Practice is the best way to improve your language skills, Talion._

_I can practice with the medics._

_While they are here._

Talion huffs. _Do I not deserve some normal conversation from the only one who can hear my voice?_

 _We have never had normal conversations,_ Celebrimbor says.

_Yes we have! You complained about my son smoking pipeweed._

_I would not call that a conversation._

_And anyway, your manners could also use some practice._

_I can practice them just as well with my hands. But I tire of arguing with you,_ Celebrimbor relents. _So you may take the rest of today as respite._

Talion rolls his eyes. _I suppose you will be taking a respite from manners as payment._

_The word respite implies I have ever bothered with manners._

Talion is about to retort when there is a knock at the door. Celebrimbor cannot quite hide how quickly his gaze snaps up to search for the intruder, but as a result he cannot see Talion’s reaction.

“You have a visitor,” the healer says quietly to Talion.

Talion gives Celebrimbor a confused look, and despite having just finished scolding him for not practicing Celebrimbor speaks for him: “Who?”

“A nobleman named Hallas?” the healer answers. “He claims he is Talion’s goodfather.”

She speaks delicately – the nature of elven marriage means elves are not very stringent about who makes an acceptable spouse for whom, but from her tone Celebrimbor gathers that Talion’s situation is unusual.

 _No blood of N_ _ú_ _menor is in my veins,_ Talion had told him once. _Hallas never let me forget that and Ioreth never cared._

Celebrimbor takes one look at Talion’s ashen face and makes a swift decision.

“He is mistaken,” Celebrimbor tells the medic. She shifts uncertainly.

“He might insist,” she warns.

“Send him away,” Celebrimbor orders, and clearly sensing that he will not budge the medic swallows and shuts the door.

Celebrimbor looks at Talion, who looks back with that wide-eyed expression of dawning despair that has marked so much of their journey together.

 _He will insist,_ Talion says, with a distressed note of urgency.

Celebrimbor hesitates. _What do you wish to do?_

He knows less about Talion’s life than he should for the amount of time they have spent together, but it is clear that Talion’s goodfather has power over him and did not approve of his marriage. And now his daughter and grandson are dead.

How did a nobleman’s daughter come to live so far from the capital? Why was Talion upon the Black Gate that day? What will Hallas say if Celebrimbor allows him to speak to Talion, who cannot defend himself either through word or deed?

 _Do not leave me alone with him,_ Talion says, just short of begging.

There are heavy footsteps coming down the hall. It seems Hallas did indeed insist.

 _Pretend you are sleeping, if you can,_ Celebrimbor says, and goes outside.

His elven hearing has been a blessing this day: though they are still within earshot if Talion cares to listen Celebrimbor manages to waylay his companion’s goodfather some distance from Talion’s sickbed. Hallas is easy to discern from the staff, well-dressed in ceremonial armor with just barely enough practical use to its design.

“You were told to leave,” Celebrimbor says by way of greeting.

Hallas stops, and sets his shoulders back. “You must be the elf the healers spoke of.”

So they do discuss him. But somehow Celebrimbor’s discomfort seems a distant thing in the face of his current dilemma.

“He is not taking visitors until he recovers,” Celebrimbor tells him firmly. “I suggest you return another time.”

“He is my daughter’s widower,” Hallas retorts, with just a little tremor of emotion. “Whatever status you hold among your people does not give you the authority to deny me. I shall not be stayed.”

He holds himself like a lord. But even if Celebrimbor’s confidence has turned to ash, he has been a lord for longer than this mortal man has lived.

“If words will not change your mind, then perhaps deeds shall,” Celebrimbor tells him. He hears a nurse quietly send one of his coworkers out for a guard.

Hallas puffs up indignantly. “Are you threatening me?”

Celebrimbor’s arm shoots out to grab him by the hair, and he slams Hallas’s skull against the wall with all the force he dares. A medic shouts in alarm, but at the sight of Celebrimbor’s thunderous expression they all scurry off to Hallas’s aid while he spins on his heel and storms away.

Hallas will be awake in just a few seconds, but even the smallest reprieve from his presence is worth the consequences. Celebrimbor longs to tell him that the responsibility for his daughter’s death lays squarely at his own feet, that he has ended his own house for whatever foolish reason led him to exile his children to the Black Gate with no hope of return, but Hallas is not like Celebrimbor’s family: he cannot be touched by reason, and he is impervious to regret. Confrontation will not bring closure, and so escape is Talion’s best recourse.

“We are leaving,” he announces to Talion the moment he crosses the threshold. “Where is your sword?”

Talion blinks, and points to a cabinet in the corner with his good hand.  _You will have no argument from me. But what happened?_

_Did you not hear?_

_I did. But…_

They do not have time to put Talion’s armor on him. Celebrimbor seizes Acharn and Urfael from the cabinet, and after a moment Talion’s furred cloak, which was apparently a present from his wife. He wraps Acharn’s scabbard in the cloak, hands it to Talion, and then lifts the man onto his shoulders.

“ I hope you ate well today,” Celebrimbor tells him, and works his way out of the open window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> canonically feanor's sons willingly swore his oath without his asking them to, implying that he was a good dad before All That. he made them swear it again before his death because he didn't want them to give in to despair the way he had. tolkien states that there was no strife in the house of finwe until morgoth was released. in this essay i will


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really, really was going to be the last chapter. But that was because when I said this would be the last chapter, I forgot that I had to write the entire fucking road trip and not just them arriving at their destination. hepl

They are half a mile out of Osgiliath before Talion remembers something rather important.

 _Your daughter’s necklace,_ he says suddenly into Celebrimbor’s mind. _Your wife’s circlet. I left them in my bag._

Celebrimbor stops.

Their existence had not even crossed his mind since they left Mordor. He has allowed himself only to think of survival – to avoid thoughts of the future, or other more dangerous topics.

He had grabbed Talion’s mementos, and not his own.

 _It hasn’t been long,_ Talion goes on. _Put me down and go back for them._

And that thought is nearly as paralyzing: Talion has little more than his hospital robes and his mantle, and surely the guards are searching for them. He could be apprehended while Celebrimbor is gone. He could freeze to death if Celebrimbor is delayed. And Celebrimbor will have to infiltrate the city alone, without him, surrounded by strangers with hostile intent.

 _It is too dangerous to leave you here,_ Celebrimbor tells him, and starts forward again.

 _Hide me,_ Talion says urgently in answer. _You are faster and quieter than I am, you will not be gone long. They will give whatever we leave behind to Hallas._

Hallas. Celebrimbor knows very little of him. But to have his precious girl’s necklace in that man’s possession…

He imagines it sitting on a display shelf in a stranger’s house, or worse sold to the highest bidder. His chest aches with a now-familiar mix of grief and rage.

But what can he do?

 _It is too dangerous to go back,_ he says, continuing forward. _For both of us._ He hesitates, and then commits: _Let him have them._

He feels Talion slump over his shoulders. _I’m sorry, Celebrimbor._

 _I made my choices,_ Celebrimbor says, and goes on.

* * *

Travel is much, much easier with Talion conscious, even if he cannot walk as fast as Celebrimbor needs him to and must therefore be carried. His foraging knowledge is invaluable, and so they do not starve as they did on their way out of Mordor, even if it takes some trial and error.

 _Do elves not know everything of the flora in Middle-earth?_ Talion asks with some exasperation once.

_I learned some in the First Age, and then some more in Mordor. But most of my life has been lived in security._

It is a strange thought for one who has spent the past four thousand years in the desolation of Mordor. On his travels he had mostly survived through hunting, and he has not even needed to eat for some time.

_Well I am glad to be of some service, then._

_At least you are not the only one with hands now._

They flee north, back into Ithilien. Celebrimbor once again continues to walk long into the night while Talion attempts to sleep, but the man is a light sleeper by necessity and without illness to sap his strength finding rest is far more difficult. His recovery slows dramatically, but as avoiding recapture is their current top priority they agree to put some distance between them and the city before adjusting their travel arrangements.

 _Where are we going?_ Talion asks wearily.

Celebrimbor has thought about this, and truly there is only one option. _To see my aunt in Lothlorien._

They had not parted on good terms. Galadriel had heavily disapproved of his decisions while in Mordor, and told him so, and cut all ties shortly before his recapture and death. But they had been close once: he had made Nenya for her, and surely she would not deny an innocent stranger aid simply because she no longer approves of the man Celebrimbor has become.

 _The witch’s woods?_ Talion asks dubiously, pulling Celebrimbor from his thoughts.

He only barely restrains a snort. _Indeed._

_...Do you perhaps have any other aunts who don’t live in the witch’s woods?_

_I do, but they are all dead and thus you are forbidden from visiting them,_ Celebrimbor says. _You will have to content yourself with this one._

Talion is silent for a long time, and Celebrimbor does not quite know why.

They do not get a moment of rest until they are once again discovered by the Rangers.

It is a different group than the one that found them on their way south, and Talion no longer bears the armor that marks him as one of them. Celebrimbor is prepared to have a difficult time explaining himself when one of the older Rangers cries “ _Captain!_ ”

Talion is too weary to do much besides smile and reach for them, but that is enough.

 _You know them?_ Celebrimbor asks silently as they are led deeper into the wood.

 _I know many of the Rangers posted_ _in Ithilien_ _,_ Talion says. _I was the ranking officer_ _on the Black Gate_ _, after all._

_Do you trust them?_

Celebrimbor certainly hopes they have outpaced news of their escape, but it would be foolish to seek the Rangers’ assistance if they will later attempt to track them down.

 _I do,_ Talion says firmly. _They know my plight well. They are men of Gondor – and Gondor is its people before it is its laws._

From what little of it he has seen, Celebrimbor disagrees. But though he will not tell them all, he will at least accept their aid. _Very well. Perhaps they can help us cross the river._

After days with little sleep Talion once again looks more dead than alive, and the Rangers insist that Celebrimbor allow him to rest in the safety of their refuge before they continue across the Anduin. Celebrimbor nearly objects, suspicious of their persistence regarding the delay, but Talion is so steadfast in his trust and so pitiful in his condition that he begrudgingly relents.

His suspicions return redoubled when the Rangers transparently attempt to separate the two of them.

 _Celebrimbor,_ Talion says into his mind exasperatedly, _they only wish to speak to me alone. I am their friend; you are a stranger._

_I am an elf._

_But a strange elf, who refuses to give his name._

Nothing happens while Celebrimbor is led off to choose a bow to take with him on the way north, and Talion greets his return with a wan smile and a smug sense of _I told you so_ that Celebrimbor decides to ignore.

After that Celebrimbor refuses to leave Talion’s side, and so he is still there when that first morning breaks.

Sun is not unheard of in Mordor, nor is it rare in Osgiliath where he and Talion have spent quite some time now, but today there is something different about the sunrise. Celebrimbor sits by the sleeping Talion’s side and watches the darkness recede with a strange tightness in his chest, and does not recognize why until a shadow flits across the brightening sky.

 _sleep_ _y_ _sleep_ _y_ _eggchick,_ _warm summer this year,_ a bird sings somewhere. _love you love you love you love you sleepy eggchick warm_

Celebrimbor’s favorite uncle knew the tongues of the birds, and taught them to him when he was but a youth in Valinor. All his life he has listened to the songs they sing to their eggs – but there are no birds in Mordor, driven out and eaten by the hell-hawks. Celebrimbor has not heard birdsong in four thousand years.

_little sleepy, love you dearly_

The urge to wake Talion siezes Celebrimbor violently, and does not let go: the man desperately needs his rest, and has likely paid enough attention to hear birdsong in Osgiliath, but the thought of listening until the birds quiet or this raw feeling ends and _not_ waking Talion chills his bones. So he places a hand upon Talion’s forehead and waits until his companion’s breath quickens in wakening.

Talion opens his eyes, making a confused, concerned expression; Celebrimbor realizes there is moisture threatening to fall from his eyes. Feeling foolish, but knowing it is too late to turn back, he speaks.

“The birds,” he says simply.

Talion stares at him in confusion for a moment, but his expression softens as the birds sing on.

 _Yes,_ he answers silently, sad and wistful.

They sit together and listen to little creatures sing of love to their little children, until Talion is dragged back into slumber and Celebrimbor is alone again.

* * *

It is a week and some days before the Rangers deem Talion healthy enough to cross the Anduin.

“Better he recover his legs entirely,” a Ranger says, “but I fear you do not have time for that.”

Talion is gifted another set of armor – the same general design as his last, but apparently the set specific to the Black Gate has become quite rare since its fall – and Celebrimbor a weapon of his own, to go with his new bow, along with a strange circular device made to hang from his belt. The boats will only fit two and Celebrimbor refuses to part from Talion again, so a pair of Rangers accompany them across the river in another.

It has been rather a while since his last boating adventure, but fortunately no one senses Celebrimbor’s unease and they all make it to the other side safe and dry.

“Thank you,” Celebrimbor tells them, because it is polite.

“You know the way?” one of the Rangers asks.

“I do.” Celebrimbor has not told them their destination, but this is true enough: he remembers the way to Lothlorien from Eregion, and he remembers the shape of the land from maps – and the long journey in chains to Mordor. It will be easy enough to find.

The Rangers nod. “Then we wish you well. Safe travels, Captain, and may the roads ahead of you be kind.”

Talion smiles and waves, unable to respond in any other way, and with him upon his shoulders Celebrimbor sets off north again.

* * *

Now that they are farther from the city they can afford to give Talion his rest, and it is on one such night that Celebrimbor pulls out the strange device the Rangers gave him and examines it.

It is a disc suspended within a wooden case, rotating to face the same direction no matter how Celebrimbor handles it. Upon the disc is inscribed a symbol uncomfortably like his family’s sigil, with four letters at the four greatest points of the star.

Alas that mortal tongues change so quickly. He does not recognize any of it.

 _What are these?_ he asks Talion, showing him the strange object. He could speak out loud if he wanted, of course, but he finds their usual silent conversations easier. _I do not recognize the alphabet._

Talion gives him an utterly baffled and incredulous look. Celebrimbor simply gives him a flat look back.

 _They represent north, south, east and west,_ Talion says after a moment. _It’s a compass, Celebrimbor._

 _A compass?_ Ah, now he sees: if the points of the star always face the same direction, navigation when the true stars are hidden becomes much easier. What an ingenious little device.

Talion’s incredulity visibly grows. _Do you not know what a compass is?_

_I assume it is for navigation, but I have never seen one, no. How does it work?_

Talion is silent for a moment, and Celebrimbor fears he may not know, but he answers shortly and Celebrimbor decides he is simply grappling with his obvious disbelief. _There is a magnet within, which always aligns itself with the world’s poles._

_Poles?_

Again that incredulous silence. _The north- and south-most points of the world._

Celebrimbor considers this. _I had thought that those must exist. But if they are both points, then a simple needle pointing to one would not always point to the other, unless you were standing upon the straight line that connects them._

Talion looks at him as though he has grown a second head and begun speaking in tongues. Celebrimbor assumes he has said something strange, but as he cannot decipher exactly what he simply looks back and waits for Talion to regain his wits.

 _Celebrimbor,_ Talion says at length. _You know that the world is round, right?_

Celebrimbor blinks.

He remembers his father explaining to him how they had determined that the world was in fact flat, using the light of the trees and the distance between their home and his mother’s hometown in Alqualonde. The experiment was easily repeatable, and still worked fine when he explained it to his daughter in Eregion.

But some time after his death, the horizon had shifted. Became ever so slightly curved.

 _It was flat when I was alive,_ he says simply, because he has no explanation for the change.

Talion stares at him with such bafflement that it begins to resemble irritation, and he deliberately turns to lay on his side facing away from Celebrimbor.

 _Elves!_ he cries into Celebrimbor’s mind, clearly intending to be heard, and leaves Celebrimbor to ponder the implications of this new knowledge.

* * *

Talion insists that Celebrimbor helps him walk at least once a day, when they are certain that it is safe to travel more slowly. There is nothing actually wrong with his legs, of course, but he has been abed for a long time and atrophy has sapped him of much of his strength.

Celebrimbor had expected to carry him all the way to the forest, and would have done so without complaint. But he is a proud man himself, and so he understands Talion’s dilemma.

 _You will open your throat wound again if you are not careful,_ Celebrimbor scolds as they bed down for the night.

 _I tire of being carried like an object,_ Talion says, as though Celebrimbor does not understand this. _I do not need my throat or my hand to walk._

 _I have never stopped you and I do not intend to start,_ Celebrimbor says, _but_ _if you bleed to death_ _trying to walk_ _then know that I shall laugh._

They follow the river north into the marshlands, then turn west along what Talion calls the Entwash to find a way around the mountains. Talion becomes quiet and contemplative around this leg of their journey, frequently forgoing his daily attempts to restore his legs, and Celebrimbor does not learn why until much later.

(The Argonath was built long after Celebrimbor’s death, so though he knows of its existence and its significance to Talion, he does not know yet that they have passed so close to it. He would have avoided Emyn Muil altogether if he had.)

With that they once again turn north, and begin the long trek over the grasslands toward Lothlorien.

It had been difficult to appreciate the beauty of the lands between the mountains on his last trip through: Celebrimbor had known even then that if he did not escape during the journey to Mordor he would not live to return, and so he had fought, was caught, and had been beaten back into submission countless times as they marched. And there, perhaps, is his greatest shame: the bond of marriage meant that his wife felt every blow as though it fell upon her own skin, and the bond of fatherhood meant that their daughter felt every drop of their hopelessness and despair. Sauron had not needed to turn his cruel art upon Celebrimbor’s family, though he took great pleasure in doing so: simple elven biology turned one man’s torment into an ordeal for all his kin close enough to feel it.

The grass doesn’t look that much different on this side of four thousand years. But after so long in Mordor, it is very lovely: there is a gentleness to it that Celebrimbor had not realized he missed.

 _Celebrimbor,_ Talion says with that familiar exasperated voice, _you can’t kill a horse in Rohan._

Herds of wild horses have always roamed these lands, Celebrimbor knows, and though carrying both his spoils and Talion might be difficult he knows an entire horse will keep them fed for a long time.

_Is that what they call this land now?_

Talion blinks, and for a moment his expression changes to something like curiosity. But he regains his wits quickly. _Don’t distract me. The men of Rohan hold their horses as dear as their own kin, and we do not need anyone else to declare us outlaws._

 _There is no one here,_ Celebrimbor points out.

And there isn’t. He has seen signs of some nomadic peoples, but he takes care to avoid them before their mortal eyes can take notice of him or his companion.

 _Settlements are more common along rivers, and in the south against the mountains,_ Talion says. _There they have everything they need to support their lives. But there is plenty of small game, Celebrimbor; let us not tempt fate._

Celebrimbor does not restrain his sigh. But though Talion has never been here, he still knows these lands better than Celebrimbor at this point.

(Some small part of his heart is relieved, however. Celebrimbor loves horses, and the horses of this land are beautiful indeed.)

Rohan, as Talion calls it, is easily traversed even on foot, and they do so in about a week once out of the marshes. The high, rolling grasslands pose little difficulty to an elf and none of the rivers or streams hold a candle to the mighty Anduin.

But then the hills become higher, the slopes steeper. The grass is shorter here, on account of the greater winds, and on more than one night Celebrimbor offers Talion his cloak in addition to Talion’s own.

 _I’ve slept in worse,_ he says grumpily, but grumbles only mildly when Celebrimbor ignores him and drapes the cloak over him anyway. For all that he complains Celebrimbor is certain he appreciates it: Talion sleeps better on rainy nights, when he must sit against Celebrimbor's back to keep his head out of the mud.

More pressing is the question of his welcome in Lothlorien. Galadriel’s power is so great that she can hear Celebrimbor’s voice from Mordor: distance is not an issue. But there is shame in having to come crawling back to his aunt for help after so confidently rejecting her advice, and after Sauron Celebrimbor is not ready to humble himself again so soon.

But he is at heart a practical man, and so one night Celebrimbor steels himself and reaches out with his mind.

She has clearly been putting his ring to good use: Nenya is difficult to find, even as powerful as it is, and Celebrimbor can only assume she has used it to hide its power and her people from prying eyes. He may be its maker, but he made it for her – to fulfill her dream of a land of golden trees and fragrant water, frozen in time and protected from the evil that had ruined all memory of their shared home. If it hides itself from him, it is only doing as he commanded it: it is serving her.

But he need not have worried. Galadriel's fey power is greater than any other alive, and Celebrimbor feels her soul touch his with a familiar light he has not felt in –

It has been too long. There is no use in dwelling upon it.

 _Telperimpar,_ she calls him, his true name in the tongue of their mothers. He could have kept it when he came east, but to do so when all whom he loved were forced to relinquish theirs...

 _My companion is grievously injured,_ Celebrimbor begins with no preamble. _He requires a safe haven, and rest._

There is so much more to say, but Celebrimbor decides to gamble on the chance that Galadriel will find his situation dire enough to forgive his poor manners. Her spirit sweeps over him; by his side, Talion shivers in his sleep.

 _We will meet you halfway,_ she says, and withdraws.

Fortunately, Talion is not awake to see his shoulders slump in relief.

Talion’s recovery does not progress steadily, as should be expected when he spends most of the day traveling. Some days he tires faster than the day before. Some days he claims to feel almost healthy, and upon over-exerting himself becomes frustrated when the pain is too great to allow movement. Celebrimbor tries not to allow him to hurt himself, but only Talion knows his limits: Celebrimbor can only take him at his word. He reassures Talion that he will recover more quickly when they arrive in Lothlorien, but judging from the lines of strain in the other man's face this is little comfort.

It is on one such night that Talion lays with his arm over his eyes, a poor approximation of privacy when Celebrimbor is never far away. But Celebrimbor is no fool; in deference to Talion's frustration he too lays on his back, looking up at the stars. (His eyes avoid Gil-Estel.) He has lost the ability to speak soothing words, or offer kindness and comfort through conversation. He has only actions, and the best thing to do now is to allow Talion his space.

 _Fetch the bag?_ Talion asks suddenly through their bond.

Celebrimbor considers asking what exactly he wants from it so he may fetch it himself, but in the end sits up and passes the bag to Talion. Still laying down Talion removes several of its contents, including the spare set of clothes, which he unfolds –

Celebrimbor’s heart leaps into his throat. Nestled there in the folds of fabric lay the artifacts they’d gathered in Mordor: the forgehammer, yes, but more importantly his daughter’s necklace. His wife’s circlet.

 _I told them to leave the forgehammer,_ Talion says, with not a little asperity.

With shaking hand Celebrimbor reaches for his family’s treasures, and Talion offers them to him willingly. They still shine, as they should, but somehow they also seem to bear the marks of time and grief upon them.

 _How?_ He had given them up for lost, and made his peace with it: though they were the only earthly remains of his precious family, he had told himself they were ultimately only objects.

And yet, to have them back…

 _I asked the Rangers to fetch them for me,_ Talion says. _As I said, they are quite familiar with my plight, and with my goodfather. I had intended to give them to you as a gift when we arrived, but_ _today_ _..._

He has been far too emotional before Talion already. He cannot remember why this matters: he only knows that he both does and does not want to be seen in this moment, when he has regained just the tiniest piece of what he lost, and yet not nearly enough, not enough –

Talion turns his head away again. _I wouldn’t want to give them up._

Talion’s loss is so much nearer, so much fresher than Celebrimbor’s. He did not feel the Black Hand’s blade as it slit his wife’s throat – but how much does that matter? He still watched helplessly as his loved ones were slain, still knows that his son died in terror no matter what comfort he tried to offer in those final moments.

(Celebrimbor felt every ounce of his daughter’s mounting fear, her realization that her broken father could not and would not save her. Even more than the memory of his wedding bond straining and snapping under his wife’s death, this haunts him worst of all.)

Talion’s family is dead because of him, and yet. And yet.

Celebrimbor is not a good enough man to say thank you. But he turns his eyes away and clasps Talion’s hand in his, and hopes that Talion finds all the peace he seeks to grant Celebrimbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Sorry if the lack of diacritics is irksome, I was feeling lazy hskdjhf. 
> 
> 2\. There's an artifact line where Talion tells Celebrimbor that he always wanted to take Dirhael to see the Argonath, in case you didn't know what that was referencing. 
> 
> 3\. Elf marriage shit is based on osanwe, but is largely just a fun headcanon of mine: imagine what having an infant is like when you can feel your infant's emotions.
> 
> 4\. The world wasn't round until the fall of Numenor, which happened after Celebrimbor's death. As far as I can tell there are no canon mentions of compasses. The poor guy's information is so out of date, LMAO.
> 
> 5\. I know we're tired of Reasonable Telerin Mommies and How Evil You Are Is Directly Correlated To How Much/How Little Noldor Blood You Have, but also SWAN LANGUAGE FOR SWAN BABY. CELEBRIMBOR CHANGING HIS NAME EVEN THOUGH HE DIDN'T HAVE TO OUT OF LOVE AND LOYALTY. FEELINGS ABOUT ALQUALONDE. _TELPERIMPAR._
> 
> 6\. I didn't mention but I have double carpal tunnel and much of this was written with voice recognition software, so please tell me if there are any out of place words I missed oop
> 
> all the things i ACTUALLY intended to write coming up next. last installment i swear. probably. i've actually already written the ending!

**Author's Note:**

> i made this platonic as a love note to my younger self who didn't read romantic fic but wanted the intimacy that romantic fic depicts. ....the sequel will thus be explicitly romantic. i canot restrain the talibrimbor any longer. ksdkfjskjdh


End file.
